If I could be half the man...

I still remember the call. I was at home in Georgia and my wife Shari and our kids were in Canada visiting our family. The phone rang In the middle of the day. It was my wife.

”Mike, you need to come back to Canada right away. It’s your Dad.”

Silence.

”What about my Dad?” I finally responded. He hadn’t been sick.

”You just need to come back. He’s at the hospital.”

Silence.

”Is he ok? Is he dead?” I couldn’t believe I was saying those words.

”I don’t know. Just please come home.” My wife said.

But I knew that he was gone and Shari was just trying to spare me the agony of making my way back to Canada carrying that on my shoulders.

The next several hours are still just a blur. I somehow booked a flight, flew to Canada, and someone picked me up at the airport and took me directly to the hospital. Of course, what I had known in my gut was indeed the reality.

I screamed and I screamed.

I don’t know that I’ve ever shared this before outside of my wife Shari, and. I’ve certainly never written it down for the masses. So why am I doing it now, 17 years later? It could be because I am only a half dozen years from the age that he passed away from his heart attack. Or perhaps it’s because it’s time that I deal with repressed emotions. Or maybe, and most probably, it’s because I want the world to know how incredible this man was. Not just in my life, but in the lives of all those he connected with.

From a young age I could tell that my Dad was “different”. People gravitated toward him. They respected him, regardless of their age. No, this is not a mafia story. My Dad started out as a welder and supported my mother, sister, and I on a welders pay. We were a blue collar, middle class family living a modest life in a steel town in Canada. I don’t recall ever wanting for anything in life, but we certainly weren’t eating steak every night either.

My Dad was a very intelligent man. Constantly reading. Not novels, but history books. Family dinners, before my mom starting working too, were always the 4 of us together, being grilled with trivia questions while we ate. I don’t recall my Dad pushing me athletically, other than track which was a sport in which he was one of the best, literally. Instead, the push was scholastic. Learning and excelling were of the utmost importance. I remember coming home with a 75% grade once and was grounded until the next report card. Reflecting on this pressure, I had nothing but resentment and defiance at the time. Now, I am so grateful and wish that he were here so that I could thank him. To apologize for all of the teenage angst that I subjected him to, and tell him that he was right.

He provided guidance to anyone and everyone who needed it. He was a surrogate father to many of my friends and a trusted adviser. There are so many words that could be used to describe him and I’m not sure that any single word could encapsulate what he offered. He was something different to everyone, but he always seemed to be exactly what they needed at the time they needed it. The gift that he had was a very rare one, and I’ve honestly not met anyone that possesses it since.

At some point around 50 years old, my Dad lost his job as a welder. He tried various career changes for the next year or two, but I don’t believe he ever found his calling until by chance, he met someone who was interested in starting a school.

You may be asking yourself how someone “starts a school” and that’s a fair question. But this wasn’t a school for kids. It was a school for injured workers, folks who were down on their luck, and those who had succumbed to drugs and alcohol. It was a school that would teach those whom society had written off as a lost cause, a new skill. To give them a second chance to rejoin society and become self-sufficient. My Dad was not only a founder and the principal of the school, he also taught several of the classes. During these years, my Dad and the school helped hundreds of students find their way again. My Dad went above and beyond what was expected of someone in his position. He engaged with everyone on a personal level and genuinely cared about them as human beings. It was during this time that I really saw the true nature of my Dad and why so many people gravitated toward him when I was growing up. It was his compassion. His empathy. His unrelenting need to help anyone who reached their hand out to him. It was woven into every fibre of his being. It was who he was.

My Dad was the heart of that school, and when he died, the school died with him. It wasn’t long thereafter that the school closed the doors and the students were transferred to other government run programs.

I vaguely recall my Dad’s funeral. I’m sure that the memories are there, but they are locked down deeply within me. But one thing I do recall is the number of people who attended. It was standing room only. People from every decade, every location, people that I hadn’t seen in 20+ years came to pay their respects to this great man. He had no doubt, positively impacted each and every one of them in some way. I'll never know all of their stories or what he did to help them, but I could clearly see the impact. I remember thinking to myself, now here is a man who loved and was loved in return. I aspire to be that kind of man and I can only hope that when it’s my time to go, that I can draw that kind of a crowd.

I’ll end this blog with the final line from the eulogy I wrote and delivered for my Dad at his funeral. ”Dad, if I can be half the man you were, I’d be a better man than most.”. I still believe this, and I strive for it.

Happy Father’s Day Dad. I sure do miss you.

Wishing all of you the best

Mike

PS. Here's a picture of my Dad. (I swear it's not really me.)